


Gambit

by pied_pollo



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: At one point, Birds, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Chess, Depression, Episode: s03e02 In Name and Blood, Episode: s10e13 Nelson's Sparrow, Episode: s10e14 Hero Worship, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Hyperfixation, Implied/Referenced Mental Illness, Introspection, It’s Complicated, Letters, Panic Attacks, Past Drug Addiction, So Much Chess, although tbh that might be the only happy part in this fic, i got no clue, listen i’m not that good yet so chess prodigies don’t bully me please, parenthesis, rip to whatever was left of spencer’s marbles, shhhhhhh, weird formatting, why the white knight you ask?, why yes i got half the chess info online, you know i love ‘em
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27773392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pied_pollo/pseuds/pied_pollo
Summary: He gets lost in the game, just like Gideon did, and it’s not a good thing, but it’s a thing nonetheless.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 49





	Gambit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AppalachianApologies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppalachianApologies/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Skipping Rocks Across the River](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26953240) by [AppalachianApologies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppalachianApologies/pseuds/AppalachianApologies). 



> ^ Read this! It’s awesome! ^
> 
> Happy late birthday! Unfortunately, this does not have a lot of autistic Spencer...but there’s Papa Rossi!

**White begins: knight to f3.**

(He puts it back. He can’t play that game just yet.)

There’s a letter in his hands.

> _Spencer,_
> 
> _I knew it would be you who came to the cabin to check on me._

There’s a letter in his hands, and Spencer finds himself in zugzwang before he even had the chance to move.

> _You must be frightened; I apologize for that. I never meant to cause you any pain—but then, I also never envisioned writing this letter._

**White begins: pawn to e4.**

(Attempting in vain to control the board.)

(Because maybe if he had gotten to the center of the problem, he would have moved further.)

  
  


The thing about this letter is that it’s seven years old. The thing about this letter is that it’s not what Spencer is supposed to be focusing on.

Because there’s a body— _his_ body—lying on the floor under a sheet, just in front of an unfinished chess game, in the center of an unfinished investigation.

**Black reciprocates: pawn to e5.**

(Two pieces lie in the center of the board now, and the move is essentially useless. Neither pawn can budge until one of them is taken in some way.)

(Gideon was taken. Spencer remained stuck.)

(The pieces are put back into their original formation.)

> _I’ve searched for a satisfactory explanation for what I’m doing. All I’ve come up with is: a profiler needs to have solid footing. I don’t think I do anymore._

Spencer takes a step backwards and suddenly he’s crouched outside, with his head on his knees, trying to catch his breath. There are tears pouring down his face, but he isn’t sad—at least, not yet. Or maybe he is. It’s hard getting a grasp on what he feels right now; the only emotion that’s flooding through Spencer’s body is a surge of something cold that thumps in his chest like a heartbeat.

  
  


**White begins: pawn to a3.**

(It’s of the weakest moves he can make, but he doesn’t know what else to do.)

  
  


He blinks and there’s a hand on his shoulder blade, squeezing through the fabric of his jacket. Spencer processes the touch, recognizes Rossi’s firm pressure, leans backwards and lets himself be plucked from the earth like a fledgeling.

Birds will throw their young from a nest in order to test their resolve, or in order to make room for the more promising chicks. Spencer thinks of this as Rossi manhandles him across the gravel and decides he isn’t a bird after all, not just because his wings are too heavy to lift, but because he’s already been falling for years.

> _The world confuses me—the cruelty, indifference, tragedy. When my dear friend Sarah was murdered, it tore a hole in me, and I truly believed the way to handle the pain was to get back to our work as quickly as possible. Get on to helping somebody else. I thought I could handle Sarah’s murder, that I could work through it._

(He works through it.)

**Black moves next: knight to c6.**

  
  


They sit down in Spencer’s car with the doors open, with him in the passenger seat, arms crossed over his chest. Rossi slides into the driver’s seat. Both of them sit facing forward; Spencer’s glad he isn’t being forced to look anyone in the eyes.

> _On the very first case we had after, it was on a college campus.You see, I met Sarah at college, on a campus just like that one 31 years ago. Campuses are supposed to be places of life and excitement. They’re supposed to be about the future; figuring out who you are, who you’re gonna be. It’s supposed to be about dreams, not nightmares. About hope. I really don’t understand the world anymore._

  
  


**White’s turn: pawn to f4.**

(Black will know white is trying to make room for its queen. Black will know white wants black to move its pawn to e6 or e5.)

(And so:)

**Black moves: pawn to d5.**

(Mind reading is real to an extent.)

  
  


There is someone else there, gravel crunching as they walk towards the car, but Spencer keeps his head forward and closes his eyes. He hears the leather seat crinkle as Rossi turns to look.

“This is messed up,” Stephen murmurs.

Spencer smells alcohol on him. It makes his stomach turn.

“Garcia found a credit card,” Rossi says quietly. “She’s going to go through his finances. Hotch and Morgan are speaking with the crime scene team before—”

Stephen interrupts him. “Before they take the body away.” He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I know how it works.” He acknowledges Spencer. “And you are?”

“Spencer,” Rossi replies for him.

“Spencer Reid? The doctor?”

“Yep. That’s him.”

Spencer dares to peek open his eyes and finds Stephen searching his face with cold eyes. The drink has coaxed an uneven temperament out of him; aggrieved tears slide over lax and mellow features.

**White goes: pawn to e4.**

(He knows it will get taken.)

**Black responds: pawn to d4.**

(Black knows this too. He plays against expectations.)

(It doesn’t make for an interesting game more than it makes for a solid message.)

_(Do not be lazy with me.)_

  
  


Rossi’s body tenses for reasons unknown until Stephen gives Spencer a once-over, and his expression turns resolutely bitter. “Yeah, I know all about you.”

> _All homicide scenes are tragic, but when the victim’s someone young, their life ripped away before they’ve even had a chance to live...it’s devastating._

Spencer tries to speak, but his throat just bobs, catching on air—and what would he say, anyway? His hands and his gaze and his thoughts all fall into his lap.

On his end, Stephen only continues to stare at him, mouth slightly agape, head tilted to the side. “Can’t believe this kid is more torn up over _my_ _father’s_ death,” he remarks, leaning in. Spencer can’t find the energy to flinch. “Was he a different kind of man to you, Doc? Did he _connect?_ Hm?”

“Stephen,” Rossi says gently.

_“Dave,”_ Stephen mimics. He takes a step forward, catches himself on the car door. Nods. Chokes back an indistinguishable emotion. “You know, they can’t find his wedding rings.”

  
  


**White next: pawn to g4.**

(Stop the bishop from checking the king.)

(A satisfied nod in return.)

(Pride.)

> _In this line of work, I was afraid I would lose the ability to trust, but I’ve realized I can’t really look at anyone without seeing their death. And as bad as losing faith in humanity seems, losing your faith in happy endings is much worse._

  
  


“We’ll find them,” Rossi assures him, but Stephen is already gone.

Spencer closes his eyes again, relieved to watch the world tune out around him, but even as his thoughts fade out, there’s still something lingering in the back of his mind.

**Black replies: bishop to e6.**

(The king and the rook lie ready to castle.)

(The king can hide after this.)

(The others, he knows, will hold down the fort, if only for a little while.)

**White counters: bishop to b5.**

(The king cannot hide without a cost.)

(But then, this bishop will be taken unless he can find a way to defend it in one move.)

(He can’t.)

  
  


It’s not until he’s pressing the wedding rings into Stephen’s palms that he realizes that maybe both of them are birds with damaged wings, thrown from the nest too soon.

> _How many victims have we seen? How many crime scenes? Hundreds? Thousand? Pictures of families, victims—both alive and dead. I was always able to stay objective, to stay at arm’s length, but now...all I see is Sarah in them._

And it’s not until Spencer finishes the game in the cabin that he regrets ever playing chess against Gideon, because he was always teaching him to be a better player in the worst ways. Spencer knows it was because of the abyss that lurked in Gideon’s head, but now the memories all feel like grooming.

He really doesn’t want to be haunted like his mentor was, but he puts the king in checkmate before he has a chance to put the pieces away. This game wasn’t his to finish, he realizes, as he studies the board and its unfamiliar positions, but he just did nonetheless. Maybe out of habit. Maybe he just has to.

  
  
  


**Black castles: king to b8; rook to c8.**

**White takes the knight: bishop to c6.**

**Black takes the bishop: pawn to c6.**

(Some sacrifices have to be made in order to get the game going.)

(Was it worth it?)

(Guess he’ll find out soon enough.)

> _Nathan Tubbs was easy, but there was a time in my career when I would have asked the question I should have asked: was he too easy? The biggest trap for a profiler to fall into is pride—forgetting that, for all your skills, profiling is just a tool._

The drive back to Quantico is not quite silent; Tony Bennett speaks enough for everyone and Rossi drives Spencer’s car, humming along. The rain provides a drumbeat against the windows; Spencer rolls his down and balances his head on the window frame, breathing in the scents of pine needles and petrichor.

Before he can stop himself, he speaks and doesn’t know where the words came from.

“I think I’m craving.”

The car slows down a little.

  
  


**Black moves: pawn to b4.**

(It doesn’t feel like progress.)

(But despite what people say, not every move you make has to be astounding.)

Spencer hesitates, mulling over the sentence. “No, I’m not,” he decides slowly, before Rossi can answer. “I’m…” The words fall flat. “I don’t think I feel...anything. Actually..”

A strange thing to say, considering the memory of dry cheeks seems distant. Every time the name comes up in his mind, he feels another salty wave gush from his eyes.

“It’s understandable,” Rossi replies softly, keeping his eyes on the road. “You’ve worked yourself to the ground, kiddo.”

  
  


**White’s turn: pawn to f5.**

(The bishop will be forced to move.)

**Black responds: bishop to c4.**

(He doesn’t know whether this is good or bad yet.)

  
  


The car rolls to a stop outside Spencer’s apartment building. Rossi proposed to take him to his place, but Spencer turned down the offer.

Everything feels slow as he climbs out of the car and treks the stairs to his room. Noises feel dull, movements sluggish—he knows that will change in a moment.

And it does.

Being alone was a mistake.

  
  


**White moves, then black moves.**

(The board is a smear.)

(His elbow hits the king and he takes it as a sign to restart.)

> _It was like you could physically feel the mood change on the campus. Kids...they’re so resilient. They trust and believe in a way I remember, but can’t reach anymore, like a very old picture._

  
  


The lights are off, and Spencer takes a seat on the couch, and thinks.

> _You remember the circumstances, but the feelings, the emotions, they’re just out of your grasp._

  
  


He doesn’t like thinking. At least, not like this.

> _They believed in us. Believed in me. The way Sarah believed in me._

  
  


So he thinks about something else, and he plays.

And plays.

And plays.

And plays.

And plays.

> _And, as with Sarah, I feel that I led them right to the slaughter._

  
  


The pieces are shaking in his hands; the board bounces from where it’s perched on his knee. Every so often, the entire thing will tip, but he moves so fast he usually manages to finish a game before he can figure out where his pawns rolled.

Or maybe he doesn’t.

Spencer blinks and the chess board is completely empty; pieces scattered across the table and on the floor, under the couch and in between his legs. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. 

He remembers all of it, anyway.

**Mecking v. Donner; 1971. d4 Nf6 c4 e6 Nc3 Bb 4e3 O-O Bd3 d5 Nf3 b6 a3**

(Too slow too slow too slow too slow.)

**Be7cxd5exd5b4c5dxc5bxc5bxc5Bxc5O-OQe7Bb2Nc6Qa4Bb7Rfc1Bd6Qh4Ne5Nxe5 1-0**

(The days go by and it’s getting harder to hide.)

  
  


**Spassky v. D Levy; 1974.**

**e4c5Nf3d6d4cxd4Nxd4Nf6Nc3g6Be3Bg7f3Nc6Qd2O-OBc4Bd7O-O-OQb8h4a5Bh6Nxe4Nxe4Bxd4h5d5Bxd5Qe5Bxf8Qxd5Qh6Nb4Rxd4Qxd4Bxe7 1-0**

(Clockwork. It’s clockwork. He gets lost in the game, just like Gideon did. This is not a good thing, but it’s something.)

  
  


They notice, they _have_ to notice, but no one says anything. No one ever says a word.

Except for Rossi.

“You ever gonna finish this one?”

Spencer keeps his eyes on the board. “It’s a tough one. Playing yourself can be difficult.”

“Playing a ghost, even more so,” Rossi replies softly. He swipes his tongue over the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying to massage the words from his throat. “He’s gone, Spencer. Keeping the game going won’t change that.”

“I know.” He doesn’t. “I just thought that maybe I could keep part of him alive if his last game never ended.” A half-truth. If it were the last game, the white knight would be at f3. Instead, there’s a pawn on a3.

“Neither side will ever win playing like this,” Rossi points out.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Spencer wants to explain that neither side won in the last game they ever played, because Gideon died before they could finish. Everyone always goes, right when things seem like they’re going to work out.

Instead, Spencer says, “He hated goodbyes.”

Rossi seems like he knows that Spencer is holding back. Nonetheless, he replies, “Gideon also hated unfinished business.” And look where that got him. “So, let’s finish it.”

And they do. But not in the way they should.

The white knight lies on a7 by the time the game is finished; the d4 square lies open.

  
  


**Kotov v. Keres; 1950.**

**e4e5Nf3Nc6Bb5a6Ba4Nf6O-Ob5Bb3Bb7Re1Bc5c3Bb6d4d6Bg5h6Bh4O-Oa4exd4cxd4Re8axb5axb5Rxa8Bxa8Nc3g5Bxg5hxg5Nxg5Kg7Nxf7Qd7Qd2Ng4Qg5+Kf8Nh8 1-0**

> _What was I even doing there? How many times have I told you that a profiler cannot do the job if the mind is unfocused? If anything is going on in your personal life, it would cloud your judgement. My mind has never been more unfocused than it was on that campus._

  
  


He plays and he plays and no one ever says a word, but it’s nothing new.

It’s been two weeks since Gideon’s death and between the migraines and the games, Spencer’s lost weight, and he constantly feels like he wants to throw up, and he cries constantly for no reason at all except he can’t find the courage to play that last game.

He’s playing the first. Reid v. Gideon; 2001. The first time he really started losing, and the first time he really started being okay with that.

Maybe Gideon was preparing him. Maybe Gideon knew of the losses that the future would bring—because mind reading is real to an extent—because he taught Spencer to lose without the help of anyone else—because playing with Gideon meant a continuous state of checkmate—because it’s hard to beat someone who’s already beaten himself—and so that person will do nothing but teach you to do the same.

That cabin game reminds him that yes, he taught him the same.

But Spencer also learns (as he plays and he plays) that having three people in his life who were half-there does not mean he had a support system of 150%.

**Naiditsch v. Svidler; 2004.**

**e4c5Nf3e6d4cxd4Nxd4a6Bd3Bc5Nb3Be7O-Od6c4Nf6Nc3Nbd7f4Qc7Qe2b6Bd2Bb7Rae1O-OKh1g6Nd4Rfe8Nf3Rad8Ng5Bf8Qf2Bg7b4Nh5Rc1Rc8a3Qd8Nf3Rc7Rfe1Nhf6Qh4Qa8Qh3Rec8e5dxe5Nxe5Nxe5fxe5Nd7Bf4Rxc4Bxc4Rxc4Qg3h5Ne2Nxe5Rxc4Nxc4h4Qd8Bg5Qd7Nf4e5Nd3Qd5Nf2Nd6Rd1Ne4 0-1**

(He thinks that this is how denial works, perhaps.)

(He’s always been better at working through other people’s problems.)

(So he keeps playing.)

  
  


It gets to the point where Spencer isn’t even playing for Gideon anymore.

Three weeks since the cabin game.

And no one says a word.

Spencer doesn’t want them to.

He plays.

He supposes playing is all he’s ever known.

Gideon took him under a clipped wing, Spencer understands.

But they were both falling.

> _Did I let a lion loose amongst babies? Was my judgement clouded by a need to make someone pay for Sarah’s death? Two more dead. Was it a price that needed to be paid? Is death ever worth it? Was the world always this gray? Is it only in the movies that it’s black and white? Was that just an illusion? I used to know. I used to understand my place, my direction, where I was headed._

The new thing about chess is that losing to himself brings a swell of panic—completely irrational, completely petrifying panic. Spencer can feel his hands shake when nothing is in them, and his heart is beating faster than normal, and the taste of coffee has become a permanent part of his palate.

He stands up too quickly one evening and drops to his knees, elbow hitting the table as he goes down, and the pieces make clicking noises as they bounce off the ground and spin to a stop. Spencer can feel a few eyes lingering on him, but when he glances up, the heads have all turned.

Except for one.

Because there’s a hand on his back again, and he’s being led into someone’s car again, and the rain hits the windows again, and Spencer finally, _finally_ feels the grief.

> _Profiling requires belief—belief in the profile; belief in yourself. After Sarah, I no longer trusted myself at home. After Tubbs, I no longer trusted myself in the field. And without that, I have nothing._

  
  


Spencer takes a deep breath and finds himself pressed against Rossi’s living room couch with his head dangling between his knees and his entire body quaking.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Rossi finally says. Spencer just shrugs. “What’s going on, Reid? Why are you so hellbent on torturing yourself?”

A moment passes before Spencer finally whispers, “I didn’t love him.” He swallows. “Not really. Not like I should have.”

Rossi takes a seat next to him. “He was hard to love.”

It’s so much more complicated than that, Spencer knows, but before he has time to dwell on it, there’s something being pressed into his hand. Rossi’s eyes are quiet as he releases the object and Spencer turns it around in his fingers.

A white knight.

“There was a piece missing from your board,” Rossi explains. “Maybe you dropped it, I dunno, but, um…it’s Gideon’s. And I thought it might help.”

Spencer runs his fingers over the knight’s wooden grooves and holds it to the light.

Then, he promptly throws it against the wall.

> _And that was the last domino: the death of that girl. Hotch being suspended over something that was my fault. I said at the beginning of this letter that I knew it would be you to come up here. I’m so sorry the explanation couldn’t be better, Spencer. And I am so sorry that it doesn’t make more sense, but I’ve already told you—I just don’t understand any of it anymore. I’m sorry._

  
  


Rossi stares at the fallen piece and gives Spencer a pat on the back before standing up to pour them both a drink at the kitchen island.

“Gideon always liked to quote Nietzsche,” he recalls. “‘When you look long enough into the abyss’...” His gaze lands on Spencer, a glint in his eyes. “‘The abyss looks into you.’” He takes a swig of his drink. “You can’t let it.”

Spencer just gives a helpless shrug. “How can I? He practically gift-wrapped it to me. I can’t think—”

“Spencer,” Rossi interrupts gently, “take a breath.” Spencer does, and he gives a contemplative click of his tongue, staring at the mini chess board that rests upon the table. “I get that you’re trying to play it out. But that’s only gonna do damage.”

“I can’t just stop playing, Rossi.”

“No,” Rossi agrees. He swishes the drink in his cheeks before suggesting, “but you can start a new game. One of your own.”

Spencer thinks about this. “Gideon’s game is going to be a stalemate if I do that.”

“Well,” Rossi muses, “maybe that’s how it’s meant to be.”

“Or maybe,” Spencer says carefully, “that’s how it’s always been.”

Rossi smiles at this. “Maybe.” 

Spencer takes a seat at the island, spinning the board until the white side is facing himself.

“I resign,” he announces quietly.

Rossi scoops the missing piece from the ground and places it in its rightful place. “J’adoube.”

> _I guess I’m just looking for it again: for the belief I had back in college. The belief I had when I first met Sarah and it all seemed so right. The belief in happy endings._

**White begins: knight to f3**

(Same opening, different finish.)

(Maybe a better one.)

(Because he’s playing himself, yes, but at least this time, he’s not playing alone.)

**Author's Note:**

> I sat in front of my little chessboard and my little computer with a little smile as I thought “oh, this should be fun!” And by the end of this fic it turned out to be “what the heck is a defense. What the heck is a gambit. What the flippity flop. I know nothing. What the heck.”


End file.
